


Not Only the Sugar, but the Days

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 10:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25468984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: Gaby frowns, “You’re cooking dinner for the cat?”Napoleon wrinkles his nose. “The quality of the canned food at the grocery left something to be desired.”Beside him, Illya nods, face somber and aggrieved.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94
Collections: Eat Drink and Make Merry 2020





	Not Only the Sugar, but the Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamiflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamiflame/gifts).



> Happy Eat, Drink, and Make Merry, recipient! 
> 
> I will admit that I read your "Dear Creator" letter and got a little carried away when you briefly mentioned cats. I hope you enjoy it even so!
> 
> [Title credit to Li-Young Lee's "From Blossoms."](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43012/from-blossoms)

Gaby lets herself into the flat on rue de Plelo a little after half-past six, wincing at the grease dotting her hands and the thin, gritty film of sweat she can feel all over her body. She doesn’t mind the evidence of a hard day’s work, but Illya had made a point to remind her as she left for the garage that morning that they had seven o’clock dinner reservations at a restaurant of Napoleon’s choosing. It’s his turn, this week, and any establishment up to his exacting standards will undoubtedly demand better of Gaby than grubby coveralls and frizzy hair knotted under a headscarf—a feat that will likely require more than a half-hour to manage.

She can hear Illya and Napoleon both upstairs in the vicinity of the kitchen, arguing in that easy, companionable way they seem to enjoy. She toes her boots off, trying not to make too much noise, and wonders whether she might be able to sneak past them down the hall and spare herself a lecture on both punctuality and personal hygiene. At the very least, she might be able to postpone it until one of them hears the shower start up and comes looking for her, by which point the effectiveness of any argument she makes in her own defense will be amplified by the requisite nudity involved.

She creeps up the first few steps with exaggerated care, making slow, deliberate movements. There’s a rich, meaty scent on the air that gets stronger as she climbs, straining to pick up on the conversation overhead.

“Camille.” Napoleon says, sounding smug and harassed at the same time.

“Camille,” Illya echoes, disgusted. Gaby can picture the way his lip must be curling just from the tone. She smiles.

“It’s a perfectly good name,” Napoleon continues. Gaby can hear a faint, steady thunking noise that strikes her as wildly familiar, though she can’t quite place it in the moment. “Camille Claudel was Rodin’s muse, and a talented sculptor in her own right.”

“You want sculptor?” Illya shoots back. “Fine. We call her Vera, for Vera Mukhina.”

Napoleon sighs, low and longsuffering. “Dare I ask, Peril?”

“She is a sculptor,” Illya replies, blind, jingoistic pride suffusing his voice the way it always does when he starts waxing rhapsodic about the accomplishments of his culture. “Very famous. Voted People’s Artist of U.S.S.R. in 1943.”

Gaby frowns, curious as to what they could possibly be discussing, and tiptoes further up the staircase, until she can peek over the floor and into the kitchen.

Napoleon is standing on one side of the room, in front of the counter next to the stove. He has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a women’s half-apron cinched tight around his waist. Illya had purchased it as a joke some weeks before—the bottom is egregiously ruffled and the pockets are shaped like hearts, which should look ridiculous against the bespoke line of Napoleon’s slacks, but he manages to make it chic rather than absurd through sheer force of charisma, and Gaby knows that Illya gets a kick out of seeing him wear it. She’s a little confused as to _why_ he’s wearing it, considering that this date night is promising to be of the “wine-and-dine” variety rather than a quiet evening at home.

Gaby’s confusion mounts as she turns her attention to the rest of the scene at hand. There’s a big, black stock pot on the back burner, steam billowing out of it in gauzy white sheets while tiny tongues of flame lick at its base, and Napoleon has a whole array of vegetables laid out before him—carrots and broccoli and green beans, a couple of courgettes and yellow squash. At the present moment he appears to be working his way through a few crisp stalks of celery, knife flashing in the syrupy, late evening sunshine where it spills in through the open window.

Illya is posted up on the other side of the kitchen, likewise half-dressed in custom tailored evening wear, leaning back against the sink with his hands curled against his chest. He doesn’t seem to find it at all odd that Napoleon is preparing what appears to be a full meal despite their much-lauded dinner reservations. There’s a tiny puff of white fur sticking out over Illya’s palm and he rubs his thumb back and forth over it periodically, absent and fond. The moment she sees it, understanding catches Gaby square in the face, stinging like the ricochet of a swinging door, and the context of the conversation she’s overhearing slots firmly into place. She can’t quite decide whether she wants to laugh or swear her irritation to the heavens.

“Never heard of her,” Napoleon says, without turning to look at Illya.

“That is because you are lacking classical education, Cowboy,” Illya replies serenely, the corners of his mouth quirked up into a self-satisfied smirk. “Is nothing to be embarrassed about. American schooling system has never been up to snuff.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes and finishes chopping the celery. He scoops it all up against the flat of the blade and drops it into the pot. “Émilie,” he says, jabbing the knife vaguely in Illya’s direction and then sliding the crown of broccoli onto the cutting board. He cuts it across the base and proceeds to chop it into fine florets. “Émilie du Châtelet was a mathematician of some renown.”

Illya snorts. “Russia has mathematicians, too. Sofya Kovalevskaya. Is good name, Sofya.” He raises the little white puff to his face, where it wriggles and shifts, revealing itself to be a long-haired kitten with big grey eyes. It sniffs Illya’s nose and he addresses it in a lighter, sweeter voice than Gaby has ever heard him use before, “Good, strong Russian name for pretty little Russian girl.”

This is apparently enough to draw the full brunt of Napoleon’s attention away from his culinary endeavors. He sets the knife aside, blade angled toward the wall, and wheels around, hands curled over the lip of the counter at his back, to pin Illya with a flat, judgemental glare.

“Peril,” he sighs, “we found her in an alley in the middle of Paris. While my knowledge of dismal Russian sculpture may be somewhat lacking, I know enough geography to say with some certainty that makes her French.”

“She has Russian soul,” Illya coos, unbothered, pressing his cheek against the kitten’s face. He twists around to reach behind him into the sink and digs around for a second before coming up with a little sliver of meat pinched in his greasy fingers. He offers it to the kitten and it gobbles the offering merrily up and then closes its eyes in feline bliss while it licks Illya’s fingers clean.

Gaby rolls her eyes at the spectacle and stomps her way up the rest of the stairs, gratified by the way both men jump.

“Please tell me you’re not still arguing about what to name that thing,” she says, though she just spent five solid minutes watching the two of them in the act. She arches an eyebrow and puts her hands on her hips. “We’re only here for a few weeks, assuming all goes well with the mission.”

Illya smiles at her, the little, close-mouthed quirk that makes his serious eyes go soft, and hands the kitten off to Napoleon, who takes it carefully and cradles it to his breast in a direct mirror of Illya moments before, murmuring to it under his breath.

“Welcome home, solnyshko,” Illya greets, crossing the kitchen to curl one of his big hands over Gaby’s elbow and ducking his head to brush a kiss against the corner of her mouth.

She reaches up and cups her fingers gently around his chin, turning his face so she can kiss him properly. Illya makes a soft, pleased sound that pools warm in Gaby’s belly and she lets him go, giving his cheek a sharp, affectionate pat that makes him smirk as he straightens back up.

When he moves out of the way, she can see Napoleon watching them, gaze bright and mouth curved with affection. His grin widens enough to show his teeth when he catches her eye and Gaby reflects it back at him before she remembers that she’s supposed to be taking them to task for their ridiculous coddling of the kitten, which she doubts they’ll be allowed to keep, anyway. While Waverly is more than willing to let them improvise within mission parameters, neither does he seem the type to go out of his way to find room for a stray kitten on whatever clandestine transport they’ll wind up taking to extract them from the field when their task is complete.

Gaby purses her mouth, though she can tell from the way Napoleon’s eyes crinkle with amusement that it comes a second too late, and raises her chin imperiously. “What’s all this, then?” she waves a hand at the vegetables on the countertop, the stock simmering away on the stove. She wanders over to pluck a tiny floret of broccoli off the cutting board and pop it into her mouth. It blooms across her tongue, earthy and verdant and crisp. “I thought we were going out to dinner.”

“We are,” Napoleon confirms. “I got us a table at Fouquet’s at eight o’clock and - ” he swats Gaby’s hand away as she goes for another piece of broccoli, “ - I’ll thank you not to ruin your appetite.” Gaby scowls, affronted, as Napoleon waves a hand at the assortment of produce, the chicken broth burbling beside it, and explains, “This is for Marie.”

“Natalya,” Illya corrects, striding over to rub the kitten’s head. He slings his other arm low around Napoleon’s waist and smiles. 

Napoleon rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, but swallows his retort abruptly when Gaby cuts her hand like a blade through the air. Both men peer at her, blue eyes wide and guileless, and Gaby frowns, “You’re cooking dinner for the cat?”

Napoleon wrinkles his nose. “The quality of the canned food at the grocery left something to be desired.”

Beside him, Illya nods, face somber and aggrieved. Gaby turns her glare on him.

“You told me dinner was at seven.”

Illya nods again, his expression brightening. “And now it is six forty-five and here you are,” he says, chin lifted and chest forward, buoyant with self-satisfaction. “Plenty of time to wash up and get dressed.”

Gaby narrows her eyes at the revelation of this—admittedly well-meaning—betrayal, but her ire, such as it is, doesn’t do much to dampen Illya’s cheery demeanor.

“That was very nearly clever, Peril,” Napoleon says approvingly, gazing up at Illya with ill-concealed adoration.

“Almost as if I were international spy,” Illya agrees dryly. He kisses Napoleon’s forehead, thumb stroking affectionately along the blade of his hip, and fixes him with a smug smirk. “You give me too little credit.”

“It’s a trick that will only work once,” Gaby warns them both, stalking over to crowd up into their space. She glowers at Illya for a second, taking comfort in the way his eyebrows rise, concerned, and then wags a finger under his chin. “Don’t try it a second time.”

Illya nods soberly, curling his fingers around Gaby’s hand and guiding it up until he can press a kiss to her knuckles. “Never again, lyubimaya.”

Gaby sniffs, mollified, and takes her hand back before turning her attention to Napoleon, who’s watching them both with fond amusement. “And you,” she says gravely.

Napoleon hums, turning to face her. Gaby presses up onto her toes, using Napoleon’s shoulder for balance, and delivers a slow, sweet kiss to his mouth. When Gaby pulls away, Napoleon’s eyes are closed, dark lashes fanned out against his cheek.

He blinks them open, that deep ocean blue gone glossy with heat, and purrs, “Hello to you, too, meine Schätzen.”

Gaby huffs through her nose and rolls her eyes at the endearment, but she can’t quite help the little flutter it stirs behind her breastbone or the way it pulls at the corners of her mouth. She leans in to brush the pads of her fingertips over the kitten’s velvet ears and delivers yet another kiss to the crown of its tiny head.

It looks up at her and mews.

“Armes kleines Bestielein,” Gaby pouts, and strokes her thumb down its narrow back. “Have they been arguing over you all day?” She worms her hand under its belly, into the heat of Napoleon’s cupped palms, and scoops it up for herself.

She brings the kitten up to her chest and it nuzzles its face against her throat and starts purring. “Poor little beastling,” she repeats, in English this time, and nudges her knuckle under its chin. She fixes Napoleon and Illya each with a reproving stare in turn and croons, “As though there’s any question about your name.”

“By all means,” Napoleon invites, eyebrows quirked with curiosity, while Illya ducks his chin and holds out a hand in deference.

“Bibi,” Gaby announces, tossing her hair and flashing a flint-sharp smile that dares either of them to disagree.

Napoleon, clearly possessing the weaker instinct for self-preservation, blinks at her, brow furrowing. “Bibi?”

“In 1888 Bertha Benz drove the Model III Patent-Motorwagen 106 kilometres from Mannheim to Pforzheim,” Gaby explains. “The modern automobile would not be what it is today without her influence and technical skill.”

“Ah,” Illya sighs, looking resigned to Gaby’s decision in the matter.

“Bertha Benz,” Napoleon parrots, nodding his understanding. “Bibi.”

He and Illya share a look.

Gaby tilts her head to the vegetables still waiting on the counter and instructs, “You’d better get on with that.” She carries Bibi with her out into the hall and makes it a few steps toward the bedroom before she hears Illya at her back.

“Where are you going?”

“To take a shower and get dressed.”

“With the cat?”

Gaby turns and considers him over her shoulder. “She’s keeping me company,” she intones, gently scrubbing her thumb over the sweetly sloping bridge of Bibi’s nose. “It’s important for a young woman to indulge in feminine confidences.”

Illya fixes her with a knowing grin, stepping in so close that Gaby has to lean her head back to look at him. That trick stopped being intimidating around the time they all fell into bed together, so Gaby just arches an unimpressed eyebrow. Illya snorts but doesn’t move away. He slides his hands into his pockets and accuses in a low, warm murmur, “You said we weren’t keeping her.”

“That doesn’t mean she deserves to be saddled with a name so unfortunate as anything the two of you were tossing around.”

Illya hums and nods his head. “Of course,” he agrees, radiating smug satisfaction out to his fingertips.

“Go and bother Napoleon,” Gaby says, turning on her heel with her nose up in the air. “Bibi and I have business to attend to.”

She can hear Illya chuckling behind her as she goes, Bibi a warm, rumbling weight settled sweetly over her heart.

They really can’t keep her, Gaby thinks. Or they shouldn’t. They spend most of their time hopping from continent to continent, getting shot at or jumping from inadvisable heights or lighting things on fire. It’s no life for a cat.

Still, she considers as she steps into the cool privacy of the master bath, the scent of needlessly involved, hand-crafted cat food trailing her like a delicious perfume, perhaps Waverly could be convinced.


End file.
